


Traction

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Justified
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loretta's behind the counter, perched on a tall stool, watching him like she expects him to draw and demand the contents of the cash drawer at any second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traction

**Author's Note:**

> Coda to 'For Blood Or Money'. Written before 'Cottonmouth', but spoilery through that episode.

Raylan's tires spin out billows of dust as he skims through the outskirts of Harlan. Not wishing to inhale the clouds inertia carries forward around his car as he pulls up in front of Mags Bennett's store, he rolls up his window and fiddles with his cell phone until the worst has died down.

He checks the numbers of the day's callers, just to reassure himself he's in the right place. Listed between Art's third call and Winona's only is, indeed, the disposable unit he gave Loretta McCready not two weeks ago. It's been barely half an hour since she called and hung up before he could answer; Raylan counts his blessings he was only mired in paperwork at the time, and not something more difficult to abandon.

He doesn't check his gun before he leaves the car. He already knows it's loaded, and he never leaves the safety on. Besides, if there are any Bennetts watching him, he'd never survive giving them even a glimpse of unholstering his firearm.

Anyway, he doesn't want to give anyone the idea that he might be here for anything other than a social call. Which is why he takes his time unfolding himself out of the car, adjusting his hat on his head, strolling loose-limbed across the cement and onto the floorboards and through the door.

It's why he pretends he's settling his hand on his hip for comfort more than for the proximity to his weapon, and pitches his tone to be nothing but jovial when he says, "Why, Loretta McCready. Fancy meeting you here."

She's behind the counter, perched on a tall stool, watching him like she expects him to draw and demand the contents of the cash drawer at any second. "Deputy Givens."

The store seems empty enough, besides the two of them. Just to be sure, he keeps his shit-eating smile fixed in place as he says, "Mags got you earnin' your keep, I see."

Loretta's expression doesn't change, either. "Sheriff Bennett came by, and she stepped out for a spell. I expect her back real soon, though."

Raylan nods, acknowledging the warning, and lets his hand drop off his hip to hang at his side. "Well, as long as she's gone, maybe we can dispense with the pleasantries." He watches Loretta's shoulders hunch up towards her ears. "You called, Loretta, so I came. What happened?"

She looks away, turning her gaze down to the scratched and pitted plank atop the counter. "I didn't really call," she mutters. "I hung up soon as I dialed. I didn't intend the call to go through."

"Well, that's the thing about technology these days," Raylan says, reaching up to nudge the brim of his hat, tilt it back a bit to lessen the shadow across his eyes. "It's faster than most intentions." The corner of her mouth quirks, which he takes to be a good sign. Good enough to press his luck, he hopes, and after a moment he asks, "You heard anything from your daddy lately?"

It earns him a wary flash of her eyes, just a glance before she goes back to being fascinated by the ancient layer of paint soaked into the countertop. Raylan suspects that countertop might be fascinating indeed under close study, with dust and splashes of moonshine and tiny bits of weed dried right into the near-fossilized grain. Hell, crime scene boys could probably find fascinating things all over the Bennett General Store. "Mags told you he's gone south for a while, didn't she?"

The words reassure him that Mags cares enough for the girl to attempt to deceive her; the cynicism in her voice all but breaks his heart. "She did."

"She says he deserved a bit of time away, after everything with my mama and the pervert and all." Loretta's mouth quirks again, in an entirely different way. "And getting his leg caught in that beartrap."

Raylan takes care to keep his expression deadpan as he echoes her tone. "That was a spot of misfortune, him puttin' his foot that far wrong."

"He didn't mean to do it. He was tryin' to take care of me."

"I don't doubt that."

"He just wasn't very good at it. Some of the time." After a second, she breathes out, her shoulders slumping in something Raylan reads as confession. "Mostly, since Mama died, I took care of him."

Raylan finds himself nodding. Much as he doesn't want to admit it, he can relate. Well, for certain values of 'taking care', anyway. "And how's Mags been treatin' you? Everything okay there?"

Loretta chuffs out a laugh, then manages to side-eye him straight on, as if she knows exactly why he's changing the subject and wants him to know she's letting him get away with it. "Everything's fine. Mags is real nice to me, says it's no hardship takin' me in for as long as Daddy's away. Says she always wanted a girl."

He smiles; his memories of Mags's lamentations over the years--and her boys--prove that statement true enough. "Yeah, she always did." Then, just as easy but with a much sharper point behind it: "But you're not exactly hers, now, are you, Loretta."

She shrugs. "Might as well be. She treats me just the same as her grandkids: fusses over me, gives me little trinkets just because she can, feeds me full of barbecue and sweets on Sundays." And then she looks up at him, square and challenging. "Sends me off on some chore or errand or such when she wants a word with her boys."

He levels his gaze at her, thoughtful over what she hasn't said. "And you go when she sends you, of course."

"I go. But sometimes--" Another shrug, subtle and blatant both at the same time, and Raylan admires the skill of her performance. "Well, Deputy, the fact of it is, I'm older than the grandkids, and I can do some chores quicker than Mags is used to them bein' done. And when I'm done...well, then I come back."

"Before Mags is entirely finished having her word with Dickie and Coover and Doyle." Concern wars with eagerness, professional considerations and the remnants of that personal history between the Givenses and the Bennetts churning together in his gut. He works at ignoring the latter--or, at least, tells himself the former can serve the latter, provided he doesn't let anything get out of control. Like, for instance, the involvement of a fourteen year old girl in a drug queenpin's expansionist schemes. "Have you heard something, Loretta? Something that maybe isn't sittin' right?"

Something flashes in her eyes, something uncertain and afraid and very, very young. It only lasts a second before she covers, raises her chin and crosses her arms with the toughness she wears like she was born to it, but that second is more than enough to confirm it for him: she has heard _something_.

But when she speaks, there's an edge to her voice; Raylan can't tell if the reprimand is for him or for herself, but he knows he has a long way to go before she'll trust him enough to tell him anything outright. "Mags has been real good to me, you understand? Real good. I'm not tryin' to be ungrateful."

"I understand."

"I just--" And she looks away, casting her glance out the window, frowning viciously. "I just been thinkin', lately, about--about bein' in that pervert's trunk. About lyin' there in the dark, all tied up so I couldn't move and all taped up so I couldn't yell. I couldn't do a thing but go where he took me, you know?" She looks back at him then, straight down the barrel; again, what she isn't saying is all right there, clear as day but perfectly deniable because, on the face of it, she's talking about being trapped in something else entirely. "And all the while I had the feel of the tires on the highway vibratin' through my body, and all those promises he made vibratin' through my head."

Raylan breathes out, managing his temper. It's not Loretta he's mad at. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says quietly.

She gives him a hard look. "I didn't have to. Nobody _has_ to be kidnapped by a molester and tied up in his trunk."

"I guess that's true."

"I just was."

"That's true, too."

"Anyway." Finally, her gaze falters; self-conscious now, she hunches her shoulders again, physically denying any further sympathy or care he might be tempted to offer. "I been thinkin' about that lately. How I felt. It's been on my mind."

Raylan watches her for a moment, thinking through his options. So few of them are any good. "Why'd you call, Loretta?"

She blinks up at him. "Well," she says, drawing it out, and he's fairly certain the swaggering condescension of her tone is designed to cover genuine frustration. "I suppose I felt a need to make myself certain of your intentions, Deputy, in the event I should find it necessary to prevail upon them in future."

Raylan reminds himself of her age, and its associated minefields; reminds himself of everything life's put her through in that relatively short amount of time, and the effects such things tend to cause in a person. All things considered, he guesses he's lucky she's thinking about calling him for help at all.

He smiles. "I think I'd best be on my way," he says, slipping back into a general air of cordial harmlessness as he reaches up to adjust his hat. "You take care of yourself, now, Loretta."

He feels her eyes on his back as he strides to the door; only just hears her response as he steps out into the hot, dry press of the afternoon's sun: "Same to you, Deputy."


End file.
